


Brave face

by MeiFlower



Category: Buzzfeed: The Try Guys
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dark, NOTREALHOPEFULLY, Numbness, Self-Harm, Twisted, bdp, eugene - Freeform, fuckedup, stressfullife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-02-01 02:13:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12694950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeiFlower/pseuds/MeiFlower
Summary: ehhhh read it and find out ;))))





	Brave face

Home. Safe. Away.

Away from the people, away from the stares, away from the whispers, away from the stress, away from the happiness.

The shame and the stress and the  **numbness** is beginning to become too much.

The door closes and he shifts to autopilot. His shoes come off, his phone is put on charge and then he walks to the fridge. Alcohol. An escape. One glass turns into one bottle, which turns into another bottle and another... The dogs are away today. He's alone. Alone... The thoughts swirl around in his head like the alcohol in his glass.

It makes his head swirl with terrible thoughts that are chewing their way through his skull and painting themselves onto the walls and staining his carpets and drowning him and cutting him and blurring into a chant.

 

WHy wOuLD ThEy LikE YoU AnYWaY?

 

WhY TrY? 

 

InAdeQuATE.

 

DIsAPpoiNtMenT.

 

WeIRd.

 

YoU DoN'T BeLOnG iN KOreA oR aMEricA or ANywHeRE.

 

yOu'RE NevER gOiNG To BE GoOD EnOUgH.

 

The standards are suffocating him. The words are blockading his lungs. The vodka is burning his throat. He's finished two, three, maybe four bottles now; although he had stopped caring after the second bottle, all that matters is the fire that is warming him from the inside out. It is almost like a hug, yet not so. It almost helps him forget.

He has run out of vodka already. A shame, as vodka is always there- a best friend that doesn't pry into his personal life, who doesn't pretend to care. The walls stare at him in pity and he hurled his glass at it. He doesn't need pity. Pity is for the weak.

He is stumbling into the bathroom now, groggy and unaware, when he almost trips on a razor that he had dropped in his haste to leave the house this morning. Vodka had left, maybe a new friendship is in order...

The cuts feel fresh as they ebb away at the numbness. His blood feel like the tears that his eyes can't produce. His winces of pain feel great.  When his body starts to feel heavy, he cleans his friend lovingly and puts her away, proceeding to bandage his arm tightly, then brush his teeth and go through yet more motions. The colours blur and change around him as he walks, but it's okay because the colours aren't grey, don't make him feel as though he is freezing from the inside. No, the trip is the colour on his canvas, the harmony to his melody. Comforting, almost. 

It feels like an age later when he finally reunites with his bed and immediately passes out. He misses his phone lighting up with a message from a concerned friend.

 


End file.
